Fallout
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: BJ and Hawkeye made it home, but the war isn't easily forgotten. Can be read as slash--you don't have to try very hard.


Fallout

Part One: Bus

* * *

The hospital's double glass doors drifted closed behind them, and they took the steps quickly, white coats flapping against their thighs like ineffectual wings. The one on the left raised a hand to brush through his hair, dark, but laced with a silver that failed in its attempt to make him look older than he was.

"Tell me again, Beej," he looked to the other, "how two promising young surgeons ended up without a ride home from work?"

"Well," the second began as if he was telling a bedtime story to a child, "one of those surgeons loaned his car to a friend going to New York because he thought," he paused to look at his companion, "foolishly, perhaps, that he would have a ride to the hospital seeing as how he not only worked with his vehicle-owning friend but they shared the same shifts this week and, in fact, cohabitated."

"Oh."

"Don't you want to know what happened to other guy?"

"Not really."

"I think you do, Dr. Pierce." He pressed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat as they continued their walk to the corner. "This other surgeon, you see, chose this same week to not only to take his recently purchased sports car joyriding--"

"I wasn't--"

"Aht! I'm telling it. Taking to the back roads, he managed to run his car not into light pole or even a fencepost, no my friend managed to run it into a cow, putting it well out of working order."

"It wasn't just one cow."

"Sorry, a herd of cow."

"Cows."

"What?"

"Herd of cows," he emphasized as they arrived at the crosswalk, "And I was out there to deliver a baby, who, might I add, might just be named in my honor."

"They're gonna call the kid cowpusher?"

"Ha. Ha. Come on, let's get a cab."

"Too bad Charles wouldn't give us another lift."

"Yeah," he said dismissively; neither of them was too shocked at their coworker's refusal to give them a second ride. He raised his arm to catch a passing cab, but the yellow car darted by.

"Hey, a cab's gonna run us a fortune. Let's get a bus." BJ turned the corner and began his trek towards the bus stop. Hawkeye followed, a moment behind.

"I don't mind to spring for the cab," he offered as BJ stared at the bus schedule posted on the enclosed stop.

"Nah, there's one coming in," he checked his watch, "four minutes. Plus, you better start saving up for car repairs."

"Do you know what happens on buses? People mug people, and conversely, might I add, people get mugged, especially people who look like they have something to mug," he gestured at his coat and scrubs.

"So we'll explain to them that we're just playing dress up," he dismissed, plopping down on the empty bench and looking up at the sky. It was nearing midnight.

"Yeah, but there might be crazy people on there, you know, real wackos; you never know what they're gonna do. Sometimes they just," he shook his head, trying to find words, "flip out."

"I happen to live with a real wacko, and he is yet to flip out on me once," BJ returned, glancing at his watch.

Hawkeye paced behind the bench, one side to the other with quick turns in between. He wiped a hand over his forehead and found it came away wet with perspiration. Another man joined their waiting group; dressed in loose jeans and carrying a knapsack, he leaned on the signpost, casting strange glances at the dark haired doctor.

Hawkeye's eyes caught the lit bus lumbering down the street towards them, its headlights sweeping bright circles across the pavement. He gripped the back of the bench, leaning over to speak a little too close to BJ's ear as a newly arrived man watched.

"The bus smells."

"No worse than you, come on."

The vehicle came to a stop and the doors opened with a whish to reveal the garishly lit interior. The young man stepped in and dropped his change, taking an empty seat near the front. BJ followed, busy counting out change for both their fares. Hawkeye hesitated at the step, but placing a slightly shaking hand on the rail, he hefted himself up and followed BJ inside.

It was the first bus after the release of second shifts and was fairly crowded with factory workers and various other riders; there were a few that BJ could instantly place as students from the university and one man with a coffee cup of change that was undoubtedly looking for a little warmth on the October night.

If they wanted to sit together, and they did, they would have to go to the back of the bus, against the rear wall where two extra seats took the place of the isle. They shuffled along the length, BJ careful not to bump the elbows of other riders and Hawkeye careful not to bump BJ behind whom he was following too closely. They turned and settled just as the doors shut and the bus rolled on its way.

BJ lifted an abandoned paper from the empty seat beside him, shaking it out and locating the sports section. Hawkeye's eyes flicked to the paper, to the window, to the others, and then, even more quickly, back to his hands. Still, he couldn't help but letting them drift to a woman. She wasn't beautiful with her dark hair pulled back into a bun and her loose rose dress frumpily hung over her petite frame, but there was something familiar there.

He jerked his eyes away again, down to his knee which bounced of its own volition. He planted one sweating palm on it in an attempt to still the motion, but it didn't help.

What was that woman holding? There was some kind of bundle in her arms, half-concealed by her position. He told himself it was just her bag. Then he told himself again.

The bus pulled into the next stop, and Hawkeye looked expectantly at BJ. Maybe they could walk from here, maybe BJ would let him off the bus. But the other surgeon continued with his reading, engrossed in the detailed recounting of the big game he had missed while he was on call. Hawkeye thought he should say something, but what kind of man couldn't ride a bus?

He took a deep breath and listened to the doors slide shut for a second time. Turning to the window, he watched the scenery, trying to pick out buildings he knew. There was the library, and there, the coffee shop that had the best joe. And there, just around the corner, was Melba's; BJ said it was unhealthy, but Hawkeye couldn't resist the lure of their fish and chips lunch special, complete with a pint of grease and a triple bypass. Then the park, with its trees and expanse of green.

He ducked his head again, away from the green that couldn't anchor him. He could feel the tenseness in his shoulders spreading through his core and limbs, and he resisted the urge to rock back and forth, just a little. No, he demanded of himself. No, he could ride a damn bus.

Another deep breath.

Another.

It wasn't helping. His hands were shaking worse now. Biting his lip, he looked back to the woman sitting silently with her head bowed. Was she crying? No.

This wasn't going to happen again.

The bus stopped under a street light, and he looked to BJ. He couldn't breath. He was going to have to say something. The blond flipped a page in the paper, and Hawkeye spoke.

"Beej?"

"Yeah?"

"I…" What did he say? I'm going to freak out because I can't ride a bus without thinking about it? I'm not as normal as you think I am? You might want to leave me now because I sure as hell don't have this under control?

"Hawk?" BJ's eyes were on him now, even as the bus doors slid shut. In an instant he saw the shaking hands, the knee, the pallid complexion and heavy swallowing. "Hawkeye?"

"I think I'm going to have to get off the bus."

Having turned in his seat to face the other, BJ picked up his wrist and checked the pulse out of habit.

"Are you sick?" he asked, thinking Hawkeye might have motion sickness from riding so close to the back. But while that explained the pallor, it didn't cover the sweating, the shaking; Hawkeye looked terrified. He had backed as far as he could into seat and clamped his eyes shut. His hands wrapped around each other, knuckles white, and buried themselves in his lap.

"Hawkeye?"

"Let's get off. Please?" He sounded desperate, like he thought BJ would tell him no. "Tell me we can get off."

"We'll get off," BJ assured, still confused. He moved his hand to cover both of his friends, feeling the tremble as he watched him with concerned eyes. "Soon as we get to the next stop. Hang on."

BJ glanced around anxiously, noticing they were being watched by a few people but ignored by the majority. He wrapped an arm around Hawkeye's shoulder.

"Oh god," the other whispered.

"It's okay, hang on."

"Let me off, please." BJ could hear the approaching tears in his voice.

"Shh."

"Please!"

Thankfully the brakes caught and the bus came to a stop. Quickly, BJ lifted Hawkeye from the seat, pushing the other in front of him and guiding them down the isle. Hawkeye's foot caught on one of the seats, and BJ steadied him before he navigated them down the steps and out.

Hawkeye stumbled onto the pavement, then he was perfectly still. As the bus drove off, BJ released him and he took a step away. Because he was facing away in the dim light, it took BJ a moment to realize that he wasn't just breathing heavily but crying softly.

"Come on," the blond took his arm and guided them both to the nearby bench. They were still a good ways from home, but the dark city was less daunting than the terrors obviously tormenting his friend. Carefully he wrapped both arms around the shaking man, pulling the other against him so that Hawkeye's head rested against his chest. Thin arms wound around his waist and the other sobbed against him. BJ said all manner of comforting things, but he didn't think any of them were getting through. Wishing for a sedative, he did the only thing his could and pulled the other man even more tightly against him.

Hawkeye held on for a while, letting the tears come as they may. Eventually the hauntings of his mind faded, the army green walls of a bus that he hadn't just been on, the small shoulders of a Korean woman he hadn't seen in almost a year, and the crying…he realized it was just his own.

He pulled apart from BJ, and the other let him go easily, watching. To his credit, Hawkeye was trying to get himself together without help, swiping at his eyes with a handkerchief he had excavated from a back pocket and blowing his nose, drawing breaths more steadily. He slid to the end of the bench as he did this, facing away from BJ again; eventually he was silent, staring at the littered gutter next to the sidewalk.

He didn't know what to say, except, "Sorry."

"It's okay." It wasn't the casual "s'okay" they exchanged over the dinner table, but rather a sincere reassurance. Then BJ realized, instantly and with regret, that it wasn't what he should be saying at all. He pressed his eyes closed as the tears threatened him in turn, suddenly recalling not the bus, but the ravaged look on Hawkeye's face when he sat in the little, locked up room and tried to fight with him.

Hawkeye hadn't said it, but BJ knew exactly how stupid he had been for putting the man on a bus in the first place.

"I'm so sorry, Hawk," he shook his head, inching closer, letting his thigh rest, just barely, against the other's hip as he rested his arm across the back of the bench, trying to give space and comfort at once. "I wasn't thinking. I mean, I know we've only been here eight months. There was the divorce and the move, and it was horrible. But then there was Boston, and the house. Your new job, my new job. And Charles says in two months you'll be chief of thoracic surgery. I guess it was so good that…I forgot."

He wasn't sure the other took it in; in reply he got: "I should have been able to do that."

"It's only been a little while. These things take time."

"They took years, Beej," he said slowly.

BJ had no reply, though he did have a pretty good idea of who 'they' were.

"You said you forgot. Now…now that you remember," and in a self-deprecating tone, "now that I made sure of that, do you still," he swallowed hard but didn't go on.

"Still what?"

"Do you still want to hang around?" He didn't look up, but he heard the soft rustle of clothes and felt BJ stand behind him. For a tense, quiet second he was sure the other was going to walk away.

A warm, solid hand squeezed his shoulder.

"Come on sailor, let me buy you a drink."

-tbc-

AN: I'm working on writing dramatic scenes without being melodramatic, and though this was supposed to be practice, I have an idea for a multipart fic (I dunno, maybe three or four chapters) about the life BJ and Hawkeye made for themselves and how the war still intrudes upon it. The slashly content will probably go up…but we'll see…


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